Putting It Off (Part 1) by f35h

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I slouched along the pavement, dragging my heels and trying to stop myself glancing across the road, where the red and white spinning pole was unmissable, taunting me with the promise, or rather threat, of a haircut.

My mother had been nagging me to get my hair cut for a good few weeks, pointing out that it was hanging well over my collar, in violation of school rules, and that she was fed up with me constantly flicking it out of my eyes. This would normally result in me arguing with her for a while, then going to the unisex hairdressers in the high street, who were happy to deliver a minimal trim that would take it just off my collar, and leave my ears mostly covered.

This time was different though. Mum had told me that she’d had quite enough of my unkempt long hair, and a light trim wasn’t going to be good enough. She was insisting that I should go to Harvey’s, the traditional barber that I was now skulking outside, and have it cut "short and smart", the way I always had it when she used to take me. I could hear her voice now, demanding "I want it right off your ears and out of your face."

I’d ignored her, naturally, just as I had the regular demands from my form master, Mr. Hobson, who regularly berated me and all the other long haired boys in the class over our scruffy appearance. He would occasionally threaten either to take a pair of scissors to our hair himself, or instead take us to the school secretary to have ribbons put in it.

This had all become almost like a game to me and my friends. We were all confident that the school wouldn’t allow Mr. Hobson to cut our hair, or he would have done it by now. We kept our hair long and untidy as a matter of principle, as much as anything to annoy our parents and teachers. Consequently, we were all well used to being told that we looked a mess, and to get a ‘proper haircut’.

I’d decided that this time, I would put off any contact with the scissors for as long as I could, partly just because I liked my long hair, but also partly out of curiosity. What would happen if I just kept avoiding a haircut? Would I end up being marched to the barbers, or walking around school with ribbons in my hair? What would Mum actually do, if push came to shove?

It seemed like my time had run out though. Mum’s demands had become steadily more insistent, and this morning she had told me to get it cut at Harvey’s on the way home from school, no excuses, and if it wasn’t short enough, she would take me there herself.

That left me with a dilemma. I knew that if she took me, then I’d likely end up with a much shorter and more severe haircut than if I went myself. Equally, there was no chance at this point that my usual minimal trim would satisfy her, so the sensible thing was to cut my losses, go to the barbers and try to negotiate the longest possible haircut that would still keep her happy.

I looked across and through the window. The barbers’ was empty, unsurprisingly. It was a wonder that he was still in business. Harvey’s catered mostly to a few old men, who for whatever reason actually seemed to like their hair cut short, and a handful of unlucky boys whose parents didn’t give them any choice. You could tell the boys at school who were taken there, with their severely clipped necks and high fringes. The thought of walking in there of my own accord, and asking the old barber to cut my beloved hair was just too much. I’d just have to hope that Mum had somehow forgotten or that she was too preoccupied to follow through on her threat. Or maybe, I thought, optimistically, I could keep stalling until Harvey’s closed down from a lack of customers. I carried on walking, knowing deep down that I was just putting off the inevitable.

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I let myself into the empty house, and wondered if there was any way out of this. I looked in the mirror, and saw just how long my hair was. If I pulled my fringe down, it came half way down my nose. My ears were almost entirely covered, and the back hung down to the bottom of my shirt collar. I had to admit that it did look pretty scruffy, and I could understand why my Mum was so frustrated. I started to feel bad about refusing to have it cut, and wished that I had had the courage to go into the barbers, instead of just putting it off. Mum did a lot for me, and I couldn’t even bring myself to do this one thing for her.

Still, I couldn’t do anything about it now, even if I wanted to go back, they’d be closed by the time I got there. Perhaps I should just try to tidy myself up a bit before Mum came home.

I went upstairs to the bathroom and bent over the sink. I wet my hair with a sponge and tentatively picked up a comb. I normally just pushed my hair vaguely into place with my hands, and the only time it was actually combed was when we were visiting my grandparents, and Mum insisted I had to look ‘presentable’.

‘Presentable’ meant having a soapy flannel scrubbed hard around my face and ears, and being put into a stiff white shirt, top button fastened and tie uncomfortably tight. Mum would then yank her comb through my scruffy hair, forcing it into a strict side parting.

"This hair is a disgrace!" She would scold. "It’s far too long; no wonder it’s always such a mess. It’s high time I took you back to the barbers’, to have it cut properly!"

Desperate to avoid this fate, I would promise to have it cut, and keep it tidy, with no intention of keeping my word once Mum had calmed down again.

However much I hated having my hair neat and tidy, I knew how proud Mum was when I looked smart, and for once, I was trying to make her happy. I took a deep breath, and traced an unfamiliar parting down the left side of my head, forcing my hair down on either side of it, and pushing it all firmly behind my ears. I hadn’t washed my hair for a couple of days, and the natural grease combined with the water kept it in place pretty well.

There was no way I could go to school with it like this, my friends would take the mick endlessly, but even I had to admit that it was much smarter. The back was a problem, though. It was long enough that I could put it inside my collar, but it wouldn’t stay, and anyway, it still looked just as long. Struck by an idea, I scrabbled in the bathroom cupboard where Mum kept all of her stuff. I found a tangle of black metal hairgrips.

Looking in the mirror, I wound the long hair at the back of my neck around my finger, and shoved in a hairgrip. I did the same on the other side, and looked critically in the mirror, wondering if this was really such a good plan. My hair was above my collar, though I’m not sure how convincing it was. Come to that, I wasn’t really sure whether I was trying to fool Mum that I’d had it cut, or just attempting to look a bit smarter to mollify her. Realising that she’d be home any minute, I did up my top button and tightened up my tie, hoping that it would all add to the effect.

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"I see you haven’t been to the barbers. Well. I told you what would happen."

Mum clearly hadn’t been fooled for a moment, and looked disappointed, rather than angry, which just made it worse, really. I tried to articulate some kind of apology, to explain why I hadn’t had my hair cut, but I couldn’t form the words. I slunk off to the bathroom, removed the hairgrips, and messed my hair up again, feeling rather foolish.

The evening passed almost in silence, as Mum didn’t seem to want to talk to me, and I couldn’t work out what to say to her. I went to bed early, feeling miserable.

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"Come on, get up, we’re going to be late!"

I blinked, confused. It still seemed to be dark outside, and it should be light by the time I normally got up. Mum pulled off the bedclothes, clearly not in any mood to waste time. Still feeling guilty about my behaviour yesterday, I struggled up as quickly as I could.

I was hustled into my school uniform, Mum making sure that my top button was fastened and tying my tie herself, like she used to when I started at the grammar school. She marched me into the bathroom, briskly rubbed some water through my hair and attacked it with her comb, forcing it into a sharp side parting. She tutted.

"Not only is this hair a disgrace, you clearly haven’t been washing behind your ears properly."

She soaped up a flannel, bent my head down, and scrubbed hard behind my ears and around the back of my neck.

"Ow!" I exclaimed.

"Don’t go looking for any sympathy from me." She said, warningly. "I’ve had quite enough of you letting me down with the way you look. If you won’t keep yourself clean and tidy, then I don’t have any choice.

"Now come on, we don’t have much time."

I followed, with a sinking feeling in my stomach.

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We pulled up, of course, outside Harvey’s. I allowed myself to be led in, feeling slightly ashamed that I hadn’t been brave enough to come in by myself yesterday, when I had the opportunity to ask for a not-too-severe haircut. The mood that Mum was in now, there was no chance of that. It would be a Harvey’s special, I was sure. The bell tinkled as we walked into the empty shop.

"Good morning!" called out Mum, cheerily. "I’m glad that you open up so early."

"Well I don’t sleep so well, at my age." replied Mr. Harvey, "And you get the odd customer who needs a haircut before work. Or indeed before school. Take your blazer off, young man, and hop up in the chair."

I did as I was told, and was quickly enveloped in a large blue nylon cape, uncomfortably tight around my neck.

"I have to apologise for the state of my son’s hair." Mum began, sounding slightly embarrassed. "Like most boys, he seems to be terrified of scissors and combs, not to mention soap, and I’m afraid I’ve been too busy at work to keep on top of things."

"Not to worry Madam." He chuckled. "He’s here now, and I can assure you that he’ll be looking a great deal smarter when he gets up from this chair."

"Well that’s why we’re here. I’m completely fed up with him looking so scruffy. He needs a proper, traditional boy’s haircut. Short and smart!"

"Certainly madam. An old-fashioned short back and sides is just what he needs. I see far too many boys these days who look more like girls. It will be my pleasure to turn this one back into a boy for you."

My heart sank. I’d known that a lot of my hair would be coming off, but that sounded ominous. I was sure now that I’d be leaving with the kind of haircut that would make Mum very happy, but also make me a laughing stock at school.

As the barber talked, he had been flicking his comb dismissively through my hair, and now he put his hand on the top of my head, forcing my chin right down.

"Head down, please." He said, unnecessarily.

There was a loud buzzing as he flicked on a powerful pair of clippers. I gulped. This was what I had been dreading most, though it was always the likely outcome. I flinched, despite myself, as the clippers touched the back of my neck.

The blades ran mercilessly up the back of my head, and large clumps of brown hair rained past my shoulders. Despite frequent threats from Mum, I hadn’t had to bend my head for the clippers for a while. Their hypnotic sound took me back to the last time it had happened.

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It was a couple of years ago. We were going to a family wedding, and I’d been taken shopping to buy a suit. Mum had looked me over critically as I came out of the fitting room in Marks.

"Hmmm.. Very smart. We just need to get your hair cut now." As I started to protest, she reached over and gave a sharp tug on the hair which hung over my collar. "I’m not having you showing me up at the wedding. You’re having a proper haircut. Off your collar and out of your eyes."

"Quite right too!" The shop assistant chipped in. "There’s a barber’s just around the corner," she gestured. "He’ll get a proper short back and sides if you take him there."

Mum thanked the assistant and took me straight to the barber’s. It was thoroughly old-fashioned and smelt faintly of tobacco and hair cream. "Right off his ears, please, and give him a side parting," she instructed. The barber asked if she wanted him to use clippers, and though I silently begged her not to, she firmly replied "Yes, please," adding after a moment. "We’re going to a wedding, so he needs to look as smart as possible."

The barber didn’t need any more encouragement, and Mum had been delighted with my regulation short back and sides. She brushed aside my feeble protests when he started to rub sticky white cream into my hair, and combed in the required side parting. "You’ll be having Brylcreem on for the wedding." She had told me. "You might as well get used to it."

I’d sulked all the way home, though I couldn’t seem to stop touching my head. The rigidly parted and slightly oily top, and the prickly stubble at the back, where an hour before I’d had thick, flowing locks, both revolted and fascinated me.

A week later I’d been sitting in a corner at the wedding, scrubbed and uncomfortable in my stiff suit, my hair once again immaculately parted and gleaming with Brylcreem. I tried not to touch it as I stared enviously at a couple of my younger cousins, whose locks still brushed their collars and eyebrows.

I remembered the effusive compliments from older family members, all saying how smart I looked in my suit and a ‘proper haircut’. One elderly aunt in particular urged my mother to keep my hair short now. "Regular short haircuts are much the best thing for boys." She had boomed. "Don’t let them get any silly ideas about having it long and scruffy."

Mum had seemed to agree at the time, quietly enjoying the compliments, and telling me how grown-up I looked with my new haircut. Fortunately, though, she hadn’t dragged me to the barbers again, and my hair had gradually crept longer ever since. Her voice suddenly broke through the buzzing and brought me back to the present.

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"Oh yes, that’s what I call a proper haircut." She commented. "Nice and short. So much better than all that scruffy mess."

Sure enough, it felt like the clippers were running even higher than they had on the last occasion.

I sat with my head firmly held down, watching the hair pile up in my lap. Perhaps, I chastised myself, I deserved this. I could, and should, have had my hair cut before now, and if I hadn’t insisted on keeping my hair as long, and as untidy as possible, then perhaps Mum wouldn’t have been so insistent that I had it clippered so severely today.

The radical thought crossed my mind that conflict might not always be the best way. Perhaps some sort of compromise was possible. I could try to keep my hair neatly trimmed and tidy, without it being too short, severe or old fashioned.

It was too late for that today though. The barber’s clippers had done their damage, running high over my ears and firmly up the side of my head. I felt the blades in front of my right ear, then my left, and my carefully cultivated sideboards were disposed of. The clippers were snapped off, and the barber picked up his comb and scissors.

"Keep the parting on the left?" he asked Mum.

"Yes please."

My parting was carefully combed in, and he started lifting sections of my hair with his comb, and slicing away great chunks of it. They slithered down the cape to join the growing mound in my lap.

"That’s starting to look a bit tidier, eh?"

"Oh yes, that’s much better." Mum enthused.

I said nothing.

The long silver scissors were replaced with the vicious, toothed thinning shears, which I probably dreaded even more than the clippers. The damage they inflicted might be less obvious, but I knew that their effect would be to leave my previously thick hair reduced to a limp covering which would just lie down flat, neatly parted, the way Mum liked it. And besides, they hurt. I winced as the evil blades yanked at my hair.

Eventually the painful tugging stopped, and the last remnants of the cut hair combed away. The remaining thinned out locks were combed down, over my forehead, and snipped away at a sharp angle. A clean, straight parting was carved in once again, and my hair was swept firmly back and out of my face.

"How’s that for you, Mum? Smart enough now?"

"Oh yes. That’s lovely. What a difference." Mum got up from her chair and came over. She pushed my head around a little, rubbed the stubble left on the back of my head, and pulled at one of my ears.

"And I’ll be able to check behind here now," she scolded me, "and make sure it gets a regular scrubbing."

"Do you want cream or spray on it?" The barber enquired.

"Cream, please." Mum replied firmly.

My heart sank even lower as Mr. Harvey scooped out a big handful of sticky white hair cream and massaged it into the remains of my hair. The arrow straight parting was restored, and my hair forced back in a neat little wave.

"Oh don’t you look smart!" Mum exclaimed. "I really don’t know why I ever let you have your hair long."

She turned to the barber.

"How often should he come back, to keep it tidy?"

My head snapped around to look at her. Was she seriously thinking that this was going to be a repeat occurrence? She caught my expression, and before the barber could reply, she started lecturing me.

"Don’t look at me like that, Michael. I told you that I’d had quite enough of you looking scruffy, and it ends now. You’ve had plenty of opportunity to show me that you could keep yourself clean and tidy, and it’s clear that you can’t. So it’s a regular short back and sides for you now. Understood?"

She didn’t wait for an answer, but turned back to the barber, raising her eyebrows quizzically.

"Er, every three weeks would be best." He told her. "Four at a push."

"Very well. Michael will be in here every three weeks, after school. No need to ask him how he’s having it cut. I want it exactly like this, please."

She turned back to me.

"And if I’m not happy with it, we’ll be straight back here to have it cut properly. Clear?"

I lowered my head, realising that there was no way I was going to win this argument.

"Yes, Mum."

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